


nothing more than a dream on canvas

by horatioandophelia



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Activist Enj, Alternate Universe - College/University, Art Shows, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Opera music, Painting, artist R
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2020-11-24 20:24:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20913590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horatioandophelia/pseuds/horatioandophelia
Summary: Enjolras slowed down, picking out a few paintings and drawings on the walls that were recognizable as Grantaire’s and smiling slightly when he recognized some of their friends, captured in motion on canvas. Combeferre laughing, Jehan holding a bouquet of flowers, Joly and Musichetta with their arms around Bossuet…Stepping out of the hallway into the larger gallery, he stopped short at the sight of himself, illuminated, on the wall in front of him.[update: chapter 2 posted!]





	1. that, when I waked, I cried to dream again

Jehan poked their nose around the corner of Grantaire’s tiny studio. “GRANTAIRE!”

Grantaire looked up, eyebrows raised. The windows vibrated slightly with the final, raging notes of  _ Don Giovanni.  _

“THERE’S BEEN ANOTHER NOISE COMPLAINT!” shouted Jehan at the top of their lungs.

Grantaire rolled his eyes and reached over his spattered mason jars full of brushes to turn the speaker down a few notches. 

“What is it with people and opera?” he asked. 

“Still can’t hear you,” called Jehan above the opening lines of  _ Mon coeur s’ouvre a ta voix. _

“I  _ said,”  _ said Grantaire, aggressively pushing the ‘volume down’ button a few more times. “What  _ is  _ it with people and opera?”

“No one understands it,” said Jehan sympathetically. “They think it’s just controlled yodeling. Anyway, the lady at the front desk asked me to tell you to turn it down or you’ll be fined. To be fair,” they added, “You’re blasting it loud enough for Joly to hear from the street. I met him on the way in.”

“Joly has abnormally good hearing,” said Grantaire stubbornly. “Irrelevant.”

Jehan sighed, stepping into Grantaire’s studio. “I just wanted to come by and say hello before I head over to slam poetry. How’s your day been?”

“Good,” said Grantaire, smiling. “Almost done with the last painting, and I won’t have to pull an all-nighter before the exhibit opens, which is pretty fucking amazing. This one’s my favorite,” he said quietly, pointing at the portrait behind him. 

Jehan turned around, caught sight of the painting, and let out a punched-out sound. “Oh my God, R,” they said. “Is that -- ?”

“Yeah,” said Grantaire, studying his brush intently. “I know it’s not that great, and it’s stupid, but it’s probably the best thing I’ll ever do, so.”

“It’s incredible,” whispered Jehan. Their eyes were full of tears. “R, it’s  _ beautiful. _ ”

Grantaire said nothing.

“What? You don’t think so?”

“I think it’s a poorly executed pipe dream on canvas,” said Grantaire. “But thank you.”

“You’re brave to put it on canvas, though,” Jehan said. 

Grantaire smirked. “That, or the biggest dumbass on the planet.”

Jehan shook their head. “No, it’s brave. You’re not changing my mind on this one. So!” They clapped their hands together. “What are you wearing to the exhibit? We have to find you an outfit that says  _ I’m an artist, I’m single, I’m talented, and I’m sexy  _ all in one.”

“Good freaking luck,” muttered Grantaire.

“Hey,” said Jehan. “Stop that. We’re going to the mall. No buts.”

  
  


“What inspired it?” asked Jehan absently, picking through the clearance socks.

“Inspired what?” asked Grantaire, caught off guard. “Oh, you mean that painting?”  
“Yeah.”

“Oh, um, well… Basically, I had a dream.”

“Okay.” 

“Yeah. It was about when I played guitar in the street for money a couple of years back, remember?”

“When you got sick and missed Thanksgiving at Courf’s?”

“I still feel bad about that,” said Grantaire wistfully. “That leftover turkey was  _ sublime.  _ Anyway, I’m there in the street and there’s music, but I’m not playing it for some reason. And then somehow he’s there. He looks over at me and smiles and I take his hand and we dance. That’s basically it, and everything else was just me adding into it.”

“Wow,” said Jehan dreamily. “That’s the most romantic thing I think I’ve ever heard.”

Grantaire glared at him. “I have a reputation to keep up, you know.” 

Jehan let out a ringing laugh. “That’s going to be out the window just as soon as everyone sees that painting,” they said. 

“I know,” said Grantaire. “Just don’t tell Enjolras about the exhibit, okay?”

Jehan looked suddenly sad. “You don’t want him to know? Ever?”

“Never,” said Grantaire, very grey. “He hates me enough as it is. I couldn’t bear his pity too.”

  
  


Jehan brushed Grantaire’s hair aside and scrutinized his face. “I still don’t understand why you won’t let me just do a little bit of eyeliner,” they lamented.

“It’s really not my thing, J,” said Grantaire. “Guyliner’s so 2007 anyway.”

“I don’t know, I think it’d make you look like the Mad Hatter from Once Upon A Time.”

Grantaire looked at them. “Wh-- do I even want to know what that is?”

“Hmmm,” said Jehan. “Probably not.”

Grantaire smiled, taking a swig of coffee from the mug he held in his lap as Jehan darted around, fixing his hair, throwing out advice, and choosing a shirt from the plethora they’d purchased at the discount stores in town. 

“I’m so excited for everyone to see your paintings, R,” they said from across the room, comparing the two shades of green in a vest and tie. “I really think you’re going to blow everything else out of the water.”

“That is so sweet of you, J,” said Grantaire sincerely. “And so not true.”

“Honestly!”

Grantaire shook his head. 

“Are you nervous?” asked Jehan quietly. 

“No, not really.” Grantaire shrugged. “Most of the paintings are about him, and he’s not going to be there, so I don’t have to worry that I’m baring my soul to anyone who isn’t already in the know. I’m a little worried that the university won’t think they’re good enough to continue my scholarship, but then I remember that I’m a senior and I don’t think it’ll be much of a stretch for just one more semester either way. And if there aren’t any grad schools interested, I can freelance. I’ve got a studio. So not really.”

“Wow,” said Jehan. “I’m impressed.”

Grantaire shot finger guns at him. “Therapy, baby. It works wonders. Do you wanna watch Russian Doll while we wait for Courf to pick us up?”

  
  


“Whooo!” cried Courfeyrac as Grantaire opened the passenger door to his pink minivan. “The artist himself! The great genius! Riding in his chauffeured limo to his triumphant premier!”

“Limo?” asked Jehan, clambering into the balloon-filled backseat at the same that Grantaire muttered, “Genius?”

“Hush,” said Courfeyrac. “What tunes are we going to bop to on the way there?”

“Do you ever talk like a normal person, or do you just vacillate between extreme sophistication and terrible slang?” Grantaire asked Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac frowned. “I’m going to let that one slide because you’re nervous,” he said, pointing a stern finger at him. “But mark my words, when you’ve recovered your good humor, my dear sir, I shall absolutely destroy you.”

“Right, sorry,” smiled Grantaire. 

“Apology accepted,” said Courfeyrac, with magnanimity. 

“Can we please listen to Phantom of the Opera, Courf?” asked Jehan, ensconced in the backseat. “Or just  _ Prima Donna, _ on repeat?”

“Phantom again? Babe, haven’t we listened to that every single time you ride with me?”

“Courf, your car loves Phantom,” said Jehan, pouting impressively. “Don’t give me that.”

“Petunia tolerates Phantom,” corrected Courfeyrac implacably. “She prefers Slayer.”

“Oh, no,” said Grantaire softly. Jehan blanched in the rearview mirror.

“That’s right, buckaroos, you’d better buckle up, because we’re blasting  _ Angel of Death _ the whole way to campus! We’re going to arrive with ruptured eardrums and the wrath of God in our souls!” cried Courfeyrac, turning the volume knob all the way up and giggling. Grantaire shook his head good-humoredly, already unable to hear his own thoughts over the music. 

  
  


“Hey, R!” said Joly, giving him a hug as he came in. “Who knew that the student gallery could look so state-of-the-art? I feel like I shouldn’t talk too loud, it’s so professional.”

“You might have to,” said Jehan. “Courf blasted heavy metal all the way here.”

“Did someone say my name?” asked Courfeyrac, batting the huge variety of ‘Congratulations!’ balloons away from his face and leaning towards them. Jehan giggled, pushing him towards the cake stand.

“They need the balloons over here, you goof,” Grantaire heard them say as they made their way over to the tables. 

Pulling Grantaire aside, Joly led him over to the punch. “Hey, R, are you doing okay?”

“Yeah, I’m alright,” said Grantaire. “Anxiety’s definitely there, but it’s not drowning me for once.”

Joly beamed. “That’s amazing, I’m so proud of you! Hey, is Enjolras coming tonight?”

“I can’t really hear you,” replied Grantaire. “But if you’re asking if Enjolras is coming, I made very specifically sure that Courf, Ferre, Jehan, and anybody else remotely close to him did not say a single word about this to him.”

Joly nodded. “That’s what I thought,” he said sadly. “I’m sorry, R.”

Grantaire nodded heavily. “Yeah. You know, it’s crazy - this is my thesis. Like, the grand finale to everything I’ve worked on during the whole of my college career. And he’s all over it. There’s literally nothing here that he hasn’t touched. And he doesn’t even know it!” Grantaire looked down at his feet. “I kept thinking I’d outgrow it, outgrow him, so I kept painting, I kept drawing, I kept buying gold paint and hoping it would fade, but it’s only gotten stronger. I’m more in love with him than I ever was. How dumb is that?”

“R, I’m so sorry,” said Joly softly, resting his hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. “It’s not dumb.”

Grantaire grimaced, a brave attempt at a smile. “It’s just sad that he has no idea how beautiful he is. He’s radiant - these paintings don’t even come close, not even the best one. He’s the most beautiful soul I’ll ever meet. Sometimes I just wish he understood.”

Joly looked at him for a long moment.

“What?”

“Nothing! Nothing. How about some punch?” he asked cheerfully. 

  
  


Enjolras frowned down at his phone. Was  _ everyone  _ busy tonight? It just seemed rather unlikely that everyone he knew was unavailable on a Thursday night. Even Combeferre hadn’t picked up, and had only left him a cryptic text message about going to a school function that wouldn’t interest him. He looked back at his laptop. His background image, a group of revolutionaries posed on a barricade - a poster that Grantaire had painted - mocked him. 

_ Just me doing revolutionary shit tonight. Apparently _ .

Well, he could just write the paper by himself, then. 

He frowned. It was  _ weird,  _ though. 

Before he could contemplate it further, however, his phone began vibrating. Enjolras frowned again, picking it up.

“Joly?”

“Enjolras, hey, this has got to be quick before anyone notices that I’ve stepped outside, so just listen, okay?”

“Wh-- ”

“Come to the Art Building on campus. You know the one - it’s on Seventh? And wear something nice. Just-- just be quiet about it, and don’t draw attention to yourself, okay?”

“Joly-- ”

“For God’s sake, Enj, just come, you need to see this. You have to. And just -- ” Joly sputtered, apparently at a loss for words. “Just try to be kind when you get here, okay? But seriously, get your ass down here. Please.” The line went dead.

Enjolras looked down at his phone, back to his laptop, and down at his phone again. 

“What the hell?”

He looked at the phone in his hand, then at the Constitutional Law essay on his laptop, and then back to his phone. He still had a week to write it; Combeferre had promised to help him with it - he’d be fine. Still, maybe he could go to whatever this thing was and have time to be back in time to write it before it got too late. 

He glanced at the clock on the wall, surrounded by photographs of all of them together at a party, Pride, New Years’ Eve, and Christmas. They were all there, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Joly, Jehan, Bossuet, the whole ragtag group of them. He smiled, remembering how frustrated he felt every time Grantaire insisted on taking the photographs, so consistently that it was rare that he appeared in any pictures of them.  _ I’m an artist,  _ he would say,  _ and I’m pretty sure that I’d ruin the picture. I took classes on this shit, Enj.  _ And, though he would disagree and try to convince Grantaire to join them, eventually Enjolras would give up. 

He shook himself out of his thoughts. Where had Joly said to go? The Art Building? He only knew one person who would have any connections to the School of Art, and that was… 

_ Alright, fine.  _

He pulled out his old black suit from his Student Government days and managed to find a red tie, grumbling to himself.  _ Poor communication, nobody’s even responding to my texts, and then this from Joly, what in the name of God…  _

“Jehan!” Courfeyrac whisper-yelled.

Jehan turned away from a curiously-constructed wire flower piece to see Courfeyrac barreling towards them, raising their eyebrows at his expression.

“Did you see that painting that R did? The one -- ?”

Jehan nodded solemnly.

Courfeyrac’s eyes were the size of saucers. “Oh my  _ God!” _ He shook his head, agog. “I knew he  _ liked  _ Enjolras, but - I mean - I just had no idea that it was so…”

“Yeah, I know,” said Jehan. They felt their eyes sting, and they wrapped their arms around Courfeyrac’s waist impulsively. “I’m really glad I’ve got you.”

Courfeyrac put his arms around Jehan, kissing the top of their head. “Same here, love,” he said fervently. “I can’t even imagine how hard it must be, to love someone that much and go through it all alone.” 

Enjolras slipped in the side door, catching it just as two students in heels were stepping out for a smoke break. One of them stared at him as he stepped into the light spilling out from the entrance, and he could hear her whispering to her friend as the door shut behind him. He ran his fingers through his hair, wondering if he looked quite that bad, and sighed frustratedly when he realized he hadn’t brushed it in …. Four? Five days? It was easier to just wash it and go. 

Remembering Joly’s injunction, he kept to the periphery, staying on the fringes of larger groups moving through the gallery. There were a few interesting pieces here and there, but nothing that would warrant such a weird phone call. 

Passing through a dimly-lit hallway, he noticed a small painting of a golden angel extending a hand out to a dark figure below it. Now that he thought about it, it kind of resembled Grantaire’s style.  _ Okay, well, at least I’m on the right track. _

He slowed down, picking out a few paintings and drawings on the walls that were recognizable as Grantaire’s and smiling slightly when he recognized some of their friends, captured in motion on canvas. Combeferre laughing, Jehan holding a bouquet of flowers, Joly and Musichetta with their arms around Bossuet… 

He was reaching the end of the hallway, and moved out of the way of a couple holding hands, speaking in hushed voices about some painting they’d just left behind them that was  _ mesmerizing, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so - intimate? Yes, intimate, it was just so… vulnerable. I can’t believe that anyone could paint like that.  _

Frowning, he wondered absently if he’d be able to recognize the painting they were talking about. Grantaire had always mocked him for knowing “literally less than nothing” about art, but maybe he’d be able to see  _ something  _ that would be good in conversation.  _ Any excuse to talk to him, really _ . He frowned, shaking his head again to clear it of thoughts of Grantaire.

Stepping out of the hallway into the larger gallery, he stopped short at the sight of himself, illuminated, on the wall in front of him.

He was dancing with Grantaire. They were both in profile, and his arm was around Grantaire’s waist, pulling him so close that their legs melded together at the bottom of the painting into a smear of red and brown and bronze. They were in a street, on some dark night, illuminated by gold streetlamps with stars scattered above their heads. 

What struck Enjolras was not his own, beautifully painted face, but Grantaire’s. His lips were a fraction away from Enjolras’s, their foreheads touching, and his eyes watched Enjolras with a deep, aching adoration. His back arched into Enjolras, one hand clutching at Enjolras’s guiding hand, the other pulling him closer by the back of his head. The gold light of the lamps illuminated only a fraction of his face - the light was apparently reserved only for Enjolras - but nothing could hide the longing, captured in an instant, pouring from his eyes.

Enjolras’s own face, depicted in heartbreaking detail, showed him with an expression that he didn’t think he’d ever worn: gentle, adoring, honest, absolutely beloved. Something in his heart reached out towards the canvas, as if to say  _ yes, yes - this is right, this is exactly right. _ And at the same instant, he felt his heart breaking as a new thought occurred to him. 

_ What if this was just a study - just a random thought? What if this is nothing more than a dream on canvas? What if it doesn’t mean anything at all? _

Gazing up at himself madly in love, feeling tears collect in the back of his throat, he couldn’t tell if this was the moment right before or right after the kiss.

It was going well, Grantaire thought. In all honesty, he hadn’t expected much, but things were actually pretty great. He’d had a few grad schools come up and ask him to apply, and he’d sold two small paintings as well. He sipped his punch, letting his nerves settle a little with the fizzy concoction. 

_ One year sober, too,  _ said a voice in his head.  _ Not bad.  _

“Grantaire?”

His shoulders jerked as his heart suddenly kicked it into high gear, his breath hitching, his stomach curdling. “Enjolras?”

And there he was, standing right there in the middle of the gallery, in an atrocious black suit and red tie, looking just as beautiful as the day Grantaire met him.

Enjolras just stared at him, his mouth hanging open, as if he’d planned to say something but had lost it as soon as he’d seen Grantaire’s face.

Grantaire swallowed. “There’s no chance you haven’t seen it, is there?” he asked weakly. 

Enjolras shook his head slowly. “No,” he said softly. “I saw it.”

Grantaire’s hands were numb. “Right. Okay.” He let out a shuddering breath. “Sorry, I guess? Even though I know that doesn’t even begin to cover it -- ”

Enjolras was shaking his head. “No, it’s fine, I’m not mad.”

Grantaire frowned, his knees trembling. “What? But I -- I  _ used _ \-- It was a complete violation of -- ”

Enjolras took a step towards him. “What I want to know,” he said. “Is if -- if it  _ meant  _ anything. If it still means anything.” He looked at Grantaire uncertainly.

“What do you mean,  _ mean anything?”  _ Suddenly Grantaire was furious. “What the  _ hell  _ do you mean?”

Enjolras blinked, frowning. “I was just -- ”

“Is this your idea of a joke? Do you think I would just paint something like that for  _ fun?  _ That I could put that on canvas without meaning every inch of it? Are you really that blind? Or do you just think I’m that heartless?”

“R -- ”

“No, fuck you, Enjolras. I don’t have to listen to  _ anything  _ you have to say.” Grantaire turned around and shoved his way through groups of people and away from Enjolras, who stood gaping at him.

The stars were bright and cold above him as he leaned up against the solid brick next to the back exit, his hands shaking. Taking a deep breath, he brushed the tears off of his face and glowered at the dumpster across the street, planning to send a well-worded death threat to whoever had had the absolute fucking  _ gall  _ to tell Enjolras to come tonight. He slumped down, sliding unevenly down the rough bricks, resting his forehead on his knees and trying to get his heart under control. 

A few cars passed by, and two or three people left through the back door next to him, talking animatedly. The sounds of the guests inside waxed and waned with gentle regularity. 

He’d have to go back inside at some point, but each time the thought reoccurred to him, his stomach lurched so violently that he decided that, for the sake of everybody else, he should probably stay outside. Just for a few more minutes.  _ Fuck Enjolras,  _ he thought, fresh tears stinging the corners of his eyes.  _ Jesus Christ. _

“Grantaire?” And for the second time that night Grantaire’s heart leapt in hope and utter despair at the sound of Enjolras’s voice. 

“What?” he croaked flatly, addressing his knees. 

“I’m sorry,” said Enjolras in a small voice somewhere next to him. Grantaire heard him crouch down, maintaining a respectful foot of space between them. “I really am.”

“Why?” Grantaire stubbornly addressed his knees again.

Enjolras was silent for a moment. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I don’t know what I said, but I hurt you, and I didn’t mean to, and I’m sorry.” His voice quivered. Grantaire raised his head to look at him. 

Enjolras’s eyes were huge, his bottom lip trapped viciously beneath his teeth. He looked moments away from tears. His eyes were flickering frantically between Grantaire’s, searching his face for… forgiveness?

Grantaire took a deep breath. 

“Do you remember,” he began unsteadily. “Do you remember the day we met?”

Enjolras nodded. 

Grantaire smiled slightly, heart trembling. “You were president of the Student Union, and you were only a freshman. Everybody was on your case, they couldn’t believe it. And I walked into the Student Union office and everybody was sitting there hurling questions at you.” He shook his head. “And you weren’t even scared. You were this seventeen year old punk kid in a Green Day t-shirt and you fended off their questions, their accusations, their anger, and somehow -  _ somehow -  _ you not only made them into a great club, you made them into a cohesive, brilliant group. And you brought them together and then you made change happen.

“I walked in that day and you were standing there, shining like a fucking angel, you were furious and you were blinding and beautiful and strong, and  _ Christ,  _ Enjolras, I loved you. I loved you starting from that day, from the second I saw you. You’re in my soul.”

Enjolras's shoulders were trembling; he looked shell-shocked, in complete disbelief. Grantaire waited, not trusting himself to speak anymore. 

“R,” whispered Enjolras desperately in the dark. “R, I never -- I swear to you, I never knew. I never even let myself  _ think  _ that you might -- And then I saw that painting, and I just -- ” His voice broke, and he cleared his throat, staring at Grantaire helplessly.

Grantaire, his heart pounding in his throat, watched his hand reach out to Enjolras, watched Enjolras extend a hand in return, and then - a visceral, shocking punch of warmth as their fingers laced together, all the tension bleeding out of his body as he slumped against Enjolras, who was suddenly next to him. Enjolras’s arm around him, his face pressed into his hair, breath unsteady against his throat; Enjolras pulling away to look at him, his expression exactly like in the painting but so much better because it was  _ real -- _

Enjolras’s lips were cold for an instant, and then so warm that Grantaire’s mouth fell open without even thinking about it. And Enjolras’s hands were in his hair and his kisses fell indiscriminately on his lips, his throat, his jaw, and he was sure he was going to die right here, under the bright stars, in the arms of this angel he had loved for so long. 

“Enjolras? What -- when did you get here? Grantaire?” Jehan sounded completely baffled. 

“We’re going to head out,” said Grantaire softly, smiling wildly, Enjolras pulling him towards the door. “Don’t wait up.”

Joly beamed, punching a completely bemused Combeferre on the shoulder enthusiastically.  _ “Fuck  _ yeah!”

Jehan smiled, kissing Courfeyrac on the cheek. “This calls for Phantom on the ride home,” they said. “Romance all round.”

“Fine,” said Courfeyrac in an exasperated voice, largely discounted by how tenderly he wrapped Jehan’s scarf around their shoulders. 


	2. the agony of the spotlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You have to stop this,” says Combeferre sharply.  
Enjolras feels his hand clench around the napkin he’s holding, the peanut butter sandwich on his plate suddenly unappetizing. “Ferre - ”  
“No,” he interrupts. “I should have said this earlier, but I was hoping - doesn’t matter. You’re not getting it.” Enjolras, frozen in his seat, has never heard him use this tone before.  
Combeferre levels a look at him. “You know what this is about,” he says. “You know what I’m going to say,” and Enjolras does. He swallows.

_ “It’s so ridiculous,” fumed Enjolras, glaring at his plate. “How can they bring up the articles of impeachment and then let him off free? It’s impossible! It just proves - ” _

_ He stopped short. Grantaire was staring at him, an unreadable expression on his face. _

_ “What?” _

_ “Nothing,” said Grantaire, blinking. He shifted in his chair, cleared his throat. “Keep going. Just proves -?” _

_ “Um,” said Enjolras, trying to retrieve his train of thought. “Proves the - the extent to which capitalism has wormed its way into the political sphere, so that if you have enough money, you can buy your way out of an actual presidential impeachment.” _

_ Usually when someone cut him off he was able to jump right back in, but this was Grantaire, and it killed Enjolras when he didn’t know what Grantaire thought because Grantaire’s opinions were always… better, somehow, than other people’s. _

_ Grantaire nodded, that inscrutable expression still on his face. “I think it’s definitely a fair point to mention, but I think you need to flesh it out a little bit more. Connect the dots for people. How does capitalism as a concept connect to Donald Trump? How does it benefit him, as president, to have a lot of money and connections in the business world?” _

_ Enjolras breathed in. “Good point.” He paused. “Are you sure everything’s okay?” _ Am I boring you? _ he wanted to ask. _Am I too much? Am I enough? 

_ “Yep,” said Grantaire, looking down at the table. “All good. No criticisms here.” _

_ “Okay,” said Enjolras. He wanted, more desperately than he would have believed possible even a month ago, for Grantaire’s eyes to meet his, for Grantaire to look up at him and smile and make a joke about the monarchy to piss him off. _

_ But Grantaire didn’t. _

“You have to stop this,” says Combeferre sharply. 

Enjolras feels his hand clench around the napkin he’s holding, the peanut butter sandwich on his plate suddenly unappetizing. “Ferre - ”

“No,” he interrupts. “I should have said this earlier, but I was hoping - doesn’t matter. You’re not getting it.” Enjolras, frozen in his seat, has never heard him use this tone before.

Combeferre levels a look at him. “You know what this is about,” he says. “You know what I’m going to say,” and Enjolras does. He swallows.

Enjolras rinses his plate, opens his laptop, scans through several emails about ACLU litigation, and tries to control his heart rate. _ It’s not a big deal, why am I freaking out about it? _ Combeferre’s voice answers him: _ It’s because you care. _Enjolras shoves the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbing viciously. 

His phone rings, and he jumps. 

_ Incoming call from: Courfeyrac _

“Hello?”

“Enjolras! Are you busy banging R right now?”

Enjolras’s stomach lurches. “No.”

“Sweet! Jehan and I were just going to get some pho and then work on homework at their place if you wanted to come. I think Joly and Musichetta are going to come over after work too.”

“Sounds good,” says Enjolras, already starting to pack up his things. “Should I meet you there?”

“Don’t be silly,” says Courfeyrac fondly. “We’re already driving, we’re almost to your place. If Grantaire’s with you, drag him along. The more the merrier.”

“He’s with Bahorel tonight, I think,” says Enjolras, trying for nonchalance. _ Hanging out with people he actually connects with, people who don’t just rail at him about stupid political shit all the time, good God, Enjolras - _

“Oh, okay,” says Courfeyrac easily. “See you soon!”

“I can’t believe Professor V won’t let us use the study guide on the final,” laments Jehan, ensconced on their couch and surrounded by crocheted blankets of all patterns and textures. “Look, I made it color-coded and everything!”

Enjolras glances up from his Parliamentary Legislature reading to see Jehan brandishing a violently highlighted sheet of paper covered in ridiculously elegant script. 

“Is that _ glitter?” _ asks Courfeyrac in an awed voice. Jehan smiles, winking at him.

Enjolras is still trying to decipher whether one of the bullet points says ‘amphetamine’ or ‘amaranthine’ when the apartment door bangs open. 

“Hey guys!” calls Joly from the foyer, toeing off his shoes.

“Sup,” says Courfeyrac. “Did you bring anything to eat?”  
“You only like us because we bring you banana bread,” grumbles Musichetta, pulling a frankly enormous Tupperware container from her bag. “Here.”

Courfeyrac beams, tearing the lid off and shoving a piece of banana bread into his mouth. “Fucking delicious,” he says, or at least that’s what Enjolras assumes. Musichetta rolls her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips.

“How are you guys doing?” asks Joly, sitting down and setting aside his crutches. “I feel like we haven’t hung out in ages!”

“I know,” says Courfeyrac, swallowing an enormous bite. “Not since Combeferre’s birthday party, I think.”

“Holy shit, has it been that long?” asks Musichetta. Jehan nods. 

“It’s the last time I saw a lot of all of us, actually. Like Bahorel, and Grantaire, too,” they reply. “Wow, it’s been a couple of months.”

“Hey, that’s actually about as long as you and R have been dating, right?” Courfeyrac asks Enjolras.

“Yeah, I think so,” says Enjolras.

“How’s that going?” Jehan asks, smiling.

Enjolras opens his mouth, hesitates.

“Enj?”

They’re looking at him, all of them. 

“It’s good,” he says, swallowing hard. “It’s fine.”

Musichetta drops her bag with a _ thunk _on the floor and sits down next to him, putting her hand on his shoulder. 

“Sweetie,” she says gently, and normally the epithet would be annoying, but right now it’s comforting. “It’s okay, you know. You’re safe with us.”

Jehan nods. Courfeyrac extends the Tupperware of banana bread out to him, very seriously. “This bread will absolve your sins, or in this case, solve all your relationship woes,” he says, deadpan. “This is the bread of life.”

Musichetta uses one of the corners of a neon green crochet blanket to swat him (“What? I’m trying to help, Chetta!”).

Enjolras takes a deep breath. “Okay. Yeah, Combeferre talked to me about this. Um. Okay, so you know how before we started dating, R was kind of - he called me Apollo all the time, and he didn’t really see me like, um, a - ”

“He thought you were a living god,” says Jehan softly. 

Enjolras closes his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, proud of how his voice doesn’t waver. “Well, I don’t think - I can’t really explain it, but sometimes I feel like he still sees me that way. And I can’t get to him.”

Musichetta wraps an arm around him.

“What did Combeferre say?” asks Joly.

“He was right, as usual,” laughs Enjolras bleakly. “He said that I was letting Grantaire see me as a god because it was a way to keep him at a distance. I could have R all for myself without actually letting myself be seen, if that makes sense. ‘Ferre called it having my own personal bootlicker, and then took it back because he knows I don’t think of Grantaire as anything less than an absolute equal, but… Being vulnerable? I was like,_ how do I do that? _ And he basically told me to get my shit together and open up to my boyfriend on a real and personal level.” He sighs. “I hate it when he makes good points.”

“That’s rough, buddy,” says Courfeyrac. Musichetta rolls her eyes at Joly, who’s biting his lip to stop smiling.

“Maybe try to talk to him a little more openly - like, let him see you. Tell him something you’re afraid of, or something that he wouldn’t know about you,” says Jehan, deliberately ignoring Courfeyrac. “You know? Let him see how you’re actually a person, not a god.”

“But what if he doesn’t like me anymore once he actually sees me?”

After a moment of silence, Courfeyrac bursts out laughing and Musichetta buries her face in her hands. 

“Wow,” says Joly. “I cannot believe those words just came out of your mouth.”

“What? Why?”

“Have you _ met _Grantaire?” says Jehan, taking pity on him. “I think you could pour ink all over his favorite painting and he’d still love you.”

God, there’s always so much to _ do. _ Why does funding never get the allocation it deserves on college campuses? QSA is _ still _ not getting the funds they were promised months ago and there’s a drag show they need money in order to host… Opening the cabinet, Enjolras glances into the coffee tub before dumping the whole thing into the filter and filling the entire reservoir with water. _ It'll just be super strong. Whatever. _

Grantaire opens the door to the apartment, and Enjolras’s whole day gets better suddenly.

“How was the gallery?” he asks brightly, pressing the ‘ON’ button on the coffee pot. 

“Pretty rough,” says Grantaire, his voice gravelly. He doesn’t even approach Enjolras for a kiss; Enjolras doesn’t think that’s happened since they started dating. “It’s the worst when you try so hard and people just don’t see you. I can’t remember the last time someone listened to me, or looked at my work more than just in passing.” He tosses his bag on the floor, sits heavily on the couch, staring at the black TV screen.

Enjolras stands by the coffeepot, mug in hand. “I’m so sorry, R.”

Grantaire looks up at him, haggard. And there’s something in his face that Enjolras hasn’t seen before - something hard and jagged. “Yeah, just seems like it happens all the time.”

“No, it doesn’t. You had that sale last week. Everyone was in love with that portrait you did, too, for the president of that university - ”

“Yeah, the _ one time _someone likes my shit - ”

“And all our friends are so proud of you for getting sober - ”

“You don’t get it, do you?” interrupts Grantaire. The look on his face has gotten meaner, and fear dances down Enjolras’s spine.

“Get what?”

Grantaire’s jaw clenches, and he looks away. Breathes through his nose. Looks back up at Enjolras with a face like granite.

“You just - You have no idea what - like what it’s like to put your whole soul into a piece of art and have to hack out a place for it even to be _ seen _and then to have people glance at it like it’s just something disgustingly ordinary - you don’t get it, Apollo.”

Enjolras just stares. 

“See, this - ” Grantaire gestures to him, looking to the ceiling for supporting evidence (Enjolras can almost taste the resentment). “This is why I haven’t really told you about this. You’re flying so high above me that you don’t even _ see - ” _He cuts himself off. “Try to imagine, just for a second, what it’s like for those of us who can’t get to the spotlight. When we have something to say, but we can’t make people listen.”

“I’m so sorry,” Enjolras repeats, appallingly useless. He sits down next to Grantaire on the ancient couch, cradling the empty coffee mug in his clammy hands. “I wish everyone could see how talented you are.” 

Grantaire sneers, turning his head away. 

“No, really,” Enjolras insists. “I mean it. Your work is brilliant, it’s _ brilliant _ . It’s amazing. What you paint literally changed my senior thesis, with your painting of those homeless LGBT students - you make emotions come _ alive _ on these canvases, R, you make them _ real. _ You’re incredible, and you’re so smart. You just don’t have a good platform yet, so people haven’t seen you for how amazing you are. _ Really, _” he adds for emphasis when Grantaire doesn’t respond.

“Gah,” says Grantaire finally, a reluctant smile ghosting over his face. “I know I’m being an emo bitch,” and Enjolras laughs softly. “It’ll get better. In all honesty, it already is. Would you mind sharing that golden spotlight a little, though? For those of us who don’t get to occupy it so often?”

And suddenly Enjolras’s heart is racing. _ Tell him something you’re afraid of, or something that he wouldn’t know about you. _ “I’m - I don’t really like the spotlight,” he says quietly. 

Grantaire stiffens, staring at him incredulously. “Christ, Enjolras, what the _ fuck. _ I don’t want your pity.”

Enjolras swallows, looking away. His stomach curdles horribly.

“Wait,” says Grantaire. Enjolras can hear the frown in his voice. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah,” says Enjolras, picking a flake of Grantaire’s paint that’s stubbornly stuck to his coffee mug. “Maybe that makes no sense. Actually, I _ know _ it makes no sense. I just - I can’t help it that I’m good at things like public speaking, or that I know a lot about policy and revolution and stuff. I’m just - I love to grow, and to learn, and to always try harder, and be better, and I never _ mean _to steal the spotlight, it just happens. It’s weird, but - ”

“Let me get this straight,” interrupts Grantaire in a hard voice. “You - literal Apollo incarnate - don’t like attention? You really expect me to believe that?”

Enjolras closes his eyes. This is agony. “I know. It’s so stupid, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to - I can’t help it. I get so worked up about things and people listen and it’s _ wonderful _, but I - I don’t want the glory, I never wanted it. It’s never been about that, not for me - it’s about giving people their rights, and not making them live under tyranny. I don’t want to be a martyr or a god, but I get treated like I am. And I get isolated because of it - or because of how I look, or how people see me. I hate it.” 

“Are you for _ real?” _ says Grantaire. “What the _ fuck?” _

Enjolras feels tears gathering at the edges of his vision. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, what do you want me to say? I just want to help people, I just want to make a difference, and people listen to me. But - but sometimes it’s a little isolating, and it - it hurts.” _ Why did you have to make this about you, Enjolras? Haven’t you done enough of that? _

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras can hear him smirking. “I’ll bet it’s lonely at the top.” 

“No!” cries Enjolras in a strangled voice. “I don’t _ want - ” _He stops himself. “You know,” he starts again, staring determinedly at his empty cup. “That’s what I liked about you - still like about you,” he corrects himself, chest tightening. “You’re so smart, R, you’re ridiculously smart. And I take you for granted, you know, because I can talk to you about anything at all and you’ll know exactly what I mean. And you’re so talented and so strong, getting sober all on your own, and if anyone in this relationship deserves the - the spotlight, it’s you, but for whatever reason, I’m the one who’s seen as this - this revolutionary, that I’m so ‘exceptional’ or whatever bullshit…” Grantaire is looking at him like he’s never seen him before, and Enjolras can feel the weight of that gaze - the intellect behind it, the power. He forces himself to keep talking. 

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that _ you _ never saw me that way. You’ve never treated me like I was weird, or special, or anything. You never hesitate to tell me when I’m wrong, or when I’ve fucked up. It’s the best thing about you: I was never a - a wunderkind or anything. In your eyes I was just a bigheaded asshole who needed to be taken down a peg.”

“I hate to burst your bubble,” Grantaire says, bittersweet and lovely. “But you are absolutely a wunderkind to me. I’m not going to get down on my knees and say that you’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met, but… You’re pretty wonderful. You’re fucking awesome.”

Enjolras closes his eyes. “Right,” he says, his voice cracking.

The couch creaks, and Enjolras turns away. But warm arms suddenly wrap around him. He flinches. “Hey,” comes the murmur; Grantaire,_ he’s always so warm. _ “That’s okay. I’m starting to see you, you know. You’re not perfect. You take terrible care of yourself and you’re probably the least romantic guy I’ve ever met. And I saw you through the window, Enj, that coffee is going to be _ disgusting. _Doesn’t mean you aren’t the best thing that’s ever happened to me anyway.”

Enjolras takes a shaky breath, grabbing the forearm around his shoulders. “I know I’m not the best,” he says. “I know how arrogant I am sometimes. You never hesitate to point that out, and I’m trying. I don’t mean to be.”

“I know you don’t.” He can hear the smile in Grantaire’s voice. “That’s what matters.”

The coffee pot beeps, and Enjolras tries to stand up, but Grantaire yanks him back down. “Absolutely _ not _, Apollo. That’s going to be stronger than raw sewage - hey, I’m being honest - and there’s no way I’m letting you drink it. C’mon, I’ll take you to a coffee shop.” 

Enjolras’s head snaps up, but Grantaire beats him to it. “_ No, _it won’t be Starbucks. I know by now.”

“Just as long as it isn’t Starbucks,” murmurs Enjolras, lacing their fingers together and letting his head come to rest on Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire places a kiss on his hairline, and Enjolras breathes him in for just another moment before they get up.


End file.
